


twin sized mattress

by DrJackAndMissJo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Before the show, Dean Winchester Needs Therapy, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues, after the show, dean Winchester is in therapy, he is getting better!, this is a john winchester hate account, year 1998, year 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:22:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackAndMissJo/pseuds/DrJackAndMissJo
Summary: "what if he had decided to run away, on the night of one of the countless fights his dad and brother had? What if he had run away, leaving all of that behind? What if he couldn't?"
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Twin Size Mattress" by the Front Bottom  
> Enjoy!

1998

Keys in the ignition, he just started driving.

The road had always been his home, welcoming and nice and quiet in the dead of the night. After all, he had slept more nights in the backseat of his car than in beds anyways and his back had used to the weird shape he somehow managed to find comfortable in the tiny space, getting smaller and smaller with every inch he grew. It was also way cleaner than the cheap dirty motels they’d be forced to stay at, at least having a roof over their heads from time to time. It smelled nicer too: leather and gunpowder and silver knives. There was the metallic scent of dried out blood somewhere, probably still on his clothes from earlier, but he didn’t care.

Not when he was driving.

He used to call it ‘ _the_ _zone_ ,' where his mind would go on the road as faint music that was his and at the same time wasn’t played on the radio stations he grew up listening to. He would black out and drive without noticing the miles, it was a miracle that he didn’t crash into anyone or anything. That he didn’t run his car down a ditch or through a house that was just off a turn and that couldn’t be missed easily but that somehow he had missed anyway, too wrapped up in his fantasy. 

He didn’t really believe in anything other than what he could see. But again, he did see a lot of crazy shit that shouldn’t have been real anyway, so his horizons were open, but as a general rule, he tried to follow hard proof. And what was proof enough that someone upstairs cared about him, _if_ there was someone other than polluted air and forgotten prayers, when he didn’t crash and burn behind the wheel? Even when he didn’t care about himself, there must have been someone on the lookout for him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Whoever made sure that he never crashed the Impala over some soccer mom’s minivan full of screaming kids that had just won a match and were probably high on sugar, they weren’t keeping an eye out for him. Rather, they were watching the others, the normal people with their normal lives and normal families and normal minds that were not fucked up yet.

They mattered, always.

He did not.

No one cared if he crashed into a tree, lost consciousness and burned down in the driver’s seat, but someone would care if he ruined the paint job on their own cars ‘cause they parked too close to said fucking tree and a branch might have fallen off, smashing the window, amongst the list of damage he’d cause. They would care then. About the car, not about him.

No one cared about him.

As they should.

Why would they, he was a nobody, nothing important.

That had been one of the first lessons he had to take by heart and, just like everything else in his life, he had learnt that the hard way. There might be someone in the Universe looking out for him, but whoever they might be, they must’ve been getting high, or drunk, or high and drunk and shitfaced somewhere with sticky floors and the smell of piss and bad perfume tainting the air while they played renditions of his favourite song on the karaoke. That was basically the same description for both his Heaven and Hell somehow, and there was they must have been now, laying down on beer-stained bars completely drunk or planning to get absolutely wasted, just like he was.

They must’ve given up by now, by a long shot, just like he had given up.

After all, what a waste of time it was, to stay in school when he was too stupid to even sit still and too unruly and bad mouthed to deal with teachers who were never giving him the chance to even speak up at their stupid questions. He was just a pretty new face in a sea of idiots, what did he know about physics? He was just another nameless student who would stay low for his entire life, unimportant, a nobody, who cared about his take on 1984? Who was to say that he could even read something like 1984, let alone retain a single concept in that small dumb undoubtedly illiterate brain of his?

What a waste of time, to learn about history, and math, and philosophy, and art, when all he was allowed to do was kill. When all he would ever be was a killer. Sure, he had saved some people, but he was not a good guy and definitely wouldn’t be remembered as one, so what was the point of learning morality anyway. He didn’t need to know the date of the Fall of the Roman Empire to track down a ghost’s grave and desecrate it. He didn’t need to know about the Sistine Chapel to make sure his bullets hit the target even in motion. Besides, art was considered pretty gay and he had already a hard time thinking fully straight from time to time, there was no need to add fuel to the fire.

After all, he didn’t need to know anything other than what his father had thought him to survive in their line of work.

But then, what a waste of time, to survive hunt after hunt after hunt, only to continue in a nightmare world where nobody even knew him, let alone cared.

And, even when they did know him, when they did care about him, they still pretended.

Like his Uncle who wasn’t really his uncle but rather an old friend of his father who miraculously was not an asshole, unlike all the other friends of his father. There was a saying that went about how people find those like them, so assholes and assholes, and saints and saints. But his Uncle was different. He was kind, he knew his favourite food and had brought him his favourite book. He listened to him talking about cars and old movies and he replied to every question he might have.

He cared. For the first time in his life, since he had memory, he had someone that cared, that made sure he was fed and warm, instead of letting him fend for himself. He didn’t care because he was good at throwing knives, or because he could take punches and slaps without flinching, or because he was a caretaker, or because he sacrificed his life for others, dying in the middle.

His Uncle cared because he was a child and that was what grown-ups should’ve done, apparently.

But then, he only _seemed_ to care, if his father was right. Who was he to tell the difference, he was only a stupid child, thankfully he had his father’s words to go by. And his father always was right, there was no room for discussion about that. There was no use antagonising his old man, because if he said something, that something was law, held higher than the Lord’s words.

So when he said that his Uncle, who was not his nor an uncle, didn’t care, couldn’t care, he had to believe him.

After all, why would they care if he didn’t care about himself? Lost causes and all.

Nobody would notice if he disappeared, he reasoned as he sped up on dark roads, without a single destination in mind that wasn’t simply _far_. Not his family and definitely not his non-existent friends. He didn’t even know what that word meant.

He had travelled too much from one place to the other, following blindly in his father’s journey to revenge, to even know what the concept of friendship was. No place had ever stuck to him, no one had ever shown interest in the new weird kid who had so many scars that he couldn’t explain already and who would be gone in a month, or even less.

The longer he had stayed at a place, it had been when he was at his Uncle’s for that damned last time. Best five months of his ruined life, only followed suit by the short time his father left him at a Boys Home after being caught stealing, ‘cause the money he had made on his own had been stolen by someone even hungrier than he was, if that was even possible, and since the little his father had left them wouldn’t even cover the room. It was fine, though, Dean knew how to get cash quickly, but his brother was hungry and wanted peanut butter and bananas, and so he had to retort back to one of the tricks he had learned as a child. He thought he’d have the time to fix their shortage come the night, but he was mistaken, ‘cause he had been busted and his father had left him for dead, swinging by only to grab his little brother and dish, finally free of the burden of the family.

And everything must come to an end, and so did his fleeting happiness. ‘Cause his father always came back for him in the end. He was a necessity, after all.

His father needed him more than the opposite. He could survive alone, his old man couldn’t: he was good with weapons, he had more than decent tracking skills and, most importantly, he could take care of his little brother. Nothing mattered in his life, his father had taught him, nothing but his little brother. And Sammy was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not.

So he always came back, needing a babysitter that was duty-bound for free, breaking down his walls, forcing him to rebuild them all one by one, thicker and higher, and ruining all the shots he could have at a normal life.

‘Cause that was what his Uncle wanted for them, him and his little brother: a normal life, with normal things, with normal stupid problems. He didn’t want them to go and hunt poltergeists, he didn’t what them to know how to stitch themselves up, he didn’t want them to die hunting, young and alone.

But he wasn’t their Uncle and his father always came back, whether they liked it or not. And Sammy had cried, so much, after they had left their Uncle’s place for the last time. He had tried to comfort him as best as he could, ignoring the way his own heart broke at the knowledge that they had lost their only shot as a long happy life. But, when that didn’t work, he tried to make his brother’s cries quiet, the sound getting up to his father’s already thin nerves. He understood that he had to keep everything under control ‘cause, as he had learnt the hard way, every situation could go wrong, especially when he was involved.

His Uncle and his father had argued and fought and yelled and he knew, deep down, that it was his fault. After all, it was always his fault. It was his fault Sammy had gotten a cold, it was his fault the motel had cockroaches, it was his fault what happened to their mother.

And he had lowered his guard, had joined the athletics team at the school that their Uncle had sent them and had behaved like a human instead of a soldier. He was fast, after years on the run, and he was quick at dodging the obstacles, used to dodging graves and ghosts and monsters and beer bottles that flew at him at high speed, so the coach had taken him under his wing, already seeing medals and trophies.

For the first time, he was good at something that wasn’t monstrous and inhuman.

But, of course, his father heard, somehow, and he came back to take them back to their regular lives.

He hadn’t seen his Uncle in years, even when he got the Impala for his sixteenth birthday and was allowed semi-free will. Semi ‘cause it was always conditioned by his father’s whims. And his father had forbidden him to drive up to his Uncle’s, to seek refuge. Why would the man even let him in, after all that time?

No, instead he always stood near his father, making sure their family wasn’t separated and destroyed, as he should, never feeling the boulder resting on his shoulders lift, dragging him down with each step he took.

But none of that mattered, as long as he could be a good son and soldier and brother.

He didn’t matter, as long as he could keep up his good work.

But every Franz Ferdinand must die somehow, every single vase must overflow with one single drop, everything must come to an end.

He couldn’t pinpoint what the fuck had happened that night, his memory was fuzzy and ruined even if it had happened a couple of hours prior. One moment he was put, making dinner while his father researched something in his journal, trying to tune out his brother’s teenage rage that came with zits and puberty. The next he was in his car, behind the wheel, the sound of screaming inside the dirty little motel room passing through the paper-thin walls.

One of the less shitty school counsellors, that had taken pity on him in the short time he had stayed in one place, had tried to make him understand what was happening with his shit brain, telling him that he wasn’t fucked up in the head or stupid. Dissociation, she had called it, once he had started to talk about what happened in his mind, how he thought and how he felt, and amongst that word was a grocery list of diseases that mean he was crazy, a nutjob, an idiot.

Understanding it might be useful, she had claimed, but he found no use of that. He didn’t need to know why he couldn’t remember shit from time to time, or why he felt the way he did. What he needed was a way to be normal, in his own fucked up definition of normality, but that wasn’t possible, so he retorted in the oldest trick in his book, keeping his eyes dry and his mouth shut.

Besides, it wasn’t like he didn’t know what had triggered the ‘ _memory_ _loss’_ or whatever that shit was called, he knew the symptoms well enough by now: his father and his brother were arguing and he was there, in the middle, trying to make them stop before someone called the cops. But he just couldn’t take it anymore.

Neither realised he had gone out, too busy in their screaming match, and neither of them cared where he went, so why should he.

Keys in the ignition, still hearing their shared rage, he drove off.

It wasn’t the first time he walked away from their fights, and it wouldn’t be the last, but he needed to breathe and he couldn’t do it in the cramped room that made his head explode. And so he drove off into the night, the roads empty and without direction or destination.

He hadn’t even realised he had crossed the state line, too focused on the way his heart was still beating too fast and not slowing down. He wasn’t seeing the streets and the road, only staring in front of him as if the gravel could give him an answer.

The music was loud from the radio, but he couldn’t retain a sound, not with the way his brain was replaying the screaming match that was surely still going on strong. Neither of them could stop, after all, once they started screaming, and he had been too tired to deal with their bullshit.

He couldn’t remember what had started it, but it must’ve been one of the usual topics: school, work, girls, drinks, monsters. It was always one of those things that sent his father up on his mighty horse and his brother on his destructive path, going against each other with everything they had.

One thing he liked about his Uncle, was that he didn’t drink himself to sleep almost every night. He didn’t raise his voice at them, he didn’t force them to dig graves on their fucking birthdays, he didn’t belittle them for getting a good grade, ‘cause that shit didn’t matter. But he couldn’t be with his Uncle, so he should be thankful for living the way he did. For living at all.

But he just couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t stomach the belittlement and the mental games and the abandonment and the fights and the bruises and the constant needing to patch himself up.

And so he drove, angry with the world and angry with himself, ‘cause he couldn’t stand up for himself, ‘cause he was useless, ‘cause he could drive himself into a ditch and no one would care. Those fights between his father and brother were proof enough of that, ‘cause no matter how many times he’d break them apart, they’d already been clawing at each other’s throats in minutes, ‘cause he never did a good job in the first place, ‘cause he was useless.

He didn’t really know how long he had been on the road, nor in which direction he was head. All he knew was the roaring of the engine beneath him and the road in front of him, accompanied by the thunder in his head.

Still, he managed to stop at a random red light in the middle of nowhere. How, he didn’t know. His best guess was that whoever was keeping an eye on him had grown tired of his bullshit, of his running away from his problems. Hell, he must have crossed over a dozen red lights without noticing, speeding through the night, but for some reason this one brought him back to reality.

He stared at it as if it could hold all of the answers in the Universe, but the angry colour simply blinked back at him as it slowly turned green.

He didn’t know where he was now, didn’t know how many miles he had put in between himself and the cramped motel room they were staying at. All he knew was that he had taken his leather jacket and his keys with him before he left. Those, besides his necklace and his car, were the only possessions he needed. Everything else stayed in the Impala at all times, after all.

He did sleep with a gun under his pillow every time he could afford himself the luxury of one, but he always put it in the back of his jeans in the morning, ready to leave in a rush at all times.

Nobody mentioned why he always had the car ready to run and he wasn’t about to break it down to anyone, after all. It was a gut feeling, the notion that he should just say ‘ _fuck it’_ and leave everything he knew behind, but he never did anyway.

‘Cause, at the end of the day, he still had responsibilities. He was a good son and a good soldier, he couldn’t leave his father alone in his wars. He was a good brother, he couldn’t leave Sammy alone with their father.

He wondered what his life might look like if he just kept driving, staring at the light turning yellow and then red again. He thought he might drive up to his Uncle’s, he thought he could drive east and get to a beach, west or north or south and get freedom. What a wild concept that was, living life as he wanted, without anyone forcing him to hunt and kill and die.

He had done it, on a whim. He was officially on the run, alone. He had done something he had always dreamt about, something that he knew he need to start living, instead of only surviving.

Then why, why was he feeling like shit, even more than usual?

The answer came fucking easily: he had left his little brother alone with their father, in the tiny dirty cramped motel room that smelled like cheap burnt coffee and piss, while both of them fought with all their might against each other. He had left his brother alone. He had left his brother with his father, without anyone standing in the middle of their fights as a buffer.

And he knew how antsy his father would get even after a minor disagreement. He knew how he got by the time he was at the end of his liquor bottles, he knew how he acted whenever he was upset at the world. His father needed an outlet for his emotions, and he was good at that as well.

His little brother, with his teenage angst, ready to yell at the world, wasn’t. Sammy fought back, Sammy replied, Sammy didn’t stay put on the trajectory of his father’s hands. But he did, he had always done it and will do it some more, ‘cause his main job was to protect Sammy, at all costs.

The light turned green once more, but he didn’t drive forward.

Instead, he made a U-turn in the middle of the empty street in the middle of nowhere, trying to find a way back where he came from, going back to a place that wasn’t home, but to people that were family, for better and for worse, kissing goodbye to all his foolish dreams.

After all, his father always came back, but so must he.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @WaywardPianist, @CornyBird and @JLynne for pushing me to write this!  
> Here we go, in 2020/after the show!

**2020**

Keys still in the ignition, he resumed his driving.

The engine was still warm and Baby run smoothly over the pavement like she always did, but he had still insisted on waiting until the kids had gotten inside the cinema before getting back on the road. Old instincts were the hardest to kick and he still wanted to make sure every situation was clear, especially when his kids were involved.

There was no way in neither Heaven, Hell nor Purgatory he was putting his kids through anything even remotely similar to what had been his childhood. And sure, he could be a little bit overprotective, but both Jack and Claire had already been through enough shit to last a lifetime.

Sammy could tease all he wanted that he was a mother hen, or a bear mom, or any other animal-related parental figures, but he enjoyed the way those two troubled heads relied on him, even if Claire was legally old enough to drink and Jack was an all-powerful four years old in the body of a young adult who ate too much sugar. He loved them both so much, he was sure his heart would eventually explode. Yet he didn’t care, especially when he was driving alone after just dropping them off in a way his father never did for him and Sammy.

Driving always put him in a good mood, just like it did when he was younger.

He could clear his head as he passed over houses he didn’t know on streets he had no business at, and, especially as of late, all of his problems seemed easy to solve and small behind the wheel. After all, now that he had retired from active field duty and the biggest scare in his career would be a paper cut while turning old dusty pages, his life had settled into a comfortable routine that monsters couldn’t break down. Especially since he didn’t have to move from place to place, running around like a fool.

One of the only places he felt completely safe was behind the wheel, which was still accurate from his childhood, and his Baby was still one of the best things that had ever happened to him, Cas included. Besides, he was in a much better space now than he was at 16, or at 26, or even a year prior.

Turns out, therapy actually did wonders and the amount of trauma he was hiding behind a nice face was massive. He didn’t think he could shock a supernatural being with his life story, especially considering he was kinda famous after having saved the word his entire life, but his shifter therapist dropped their jaw to the floor at the third mention of Gabriel scamming them and making them believe he was dead, so. Jury was still out on that.

But still, sometimes, he needed to let off some steam and what better way to do it than behind the wheel, right?

He could drive around town running errands while let his mind wander in the meantime, trying to fix itself before he got to the farmer’s market to pick up Cas’ favourite bar of soap, cinnamon and lavender. And, for the first time in his life, he could do so without having to fear an attack in the middle of the day. Or without cops breathing down his neck as he ran away from them ‘cause all he did was grave robbing and desecration and credit card fraud. Or without leaving behind a bloody trail of destruction in his wake that meant he couldn’t sleep at night without nightmares.

He still got nightmares, even if they were becoming fewer and fewer with time, and he thought he would never get rid of them, but at least he wasn’t dealing with them alone anymore. He didn’t need to lay awake at night staring at the ceiling of a dirty cheap motel, begging the images to leave his head. Now, he had someone to talk to, someone that didn’t judge him, someone that truly loved him. Besides, nothing put him in a greater mood like being cuddled back to sleep by his husband after having had a hot chocolate.

Nevertheless, he could easily drive around clearing his head during the day, while still being productive, so that his brain wouldn’t eat him up for being a lazy asshole that deserved nothing. All he had to do was letting Baby take him wherever he needed to go, trusting her with his life.

And, when he needed to vent and rant and scream, he did. He finally allowed himself to do so, instead of holding everything back like always, growing up the way he did. His father didn’t allow emotions in the ‘ _house’_ , even if they had no stable place to stay at.

But that was in the past, luckily for their family. Now, he didn’t need to bottle every complaint and tear and scream, and he could actually talk about what was bothering him, or making him anxious, or whatever, without having to worry about being mocked and ridiculed for being a pansy, and without having to seek refuge into killing things and punching things and chasing bottles and mindless pleasures that left him emptier than before.

His unhealthy coping mechanism still screamed at the back of his head to be used, but he knew better than to fall into their traps.

Instead, he ignored them to keep on making progress: every time he archived a new goal, his shifter gave him a golden sticker star. The first time it had happened, he had scoffed and dismissed it, considering it childless and useless, but now? He needed to complete his booklet of sticker stars.

And, whenever he needed to bitch about Karen that brought store-bought cupcakes to the PTA meeting, with her cheetah print dress and fake designer handbag and her horribly blended foundation that was three shades darker, as she passed them as homemade despite having met him at the store when she bought them, he could. And he did. To his husband, nonetheless. To his Angel husband who had then commented on her recipe with the same demeanour he once used to command armies, tasting every single bit of the additives the company put to make sure they didn’t rot on the shelves and listing them in their chemical name, as the label said were there, in front of all the other PTA ladies, publicly shaming the scammer while looking delicious doing so.

Never underestimate Cas’ ability to make someone want to dig their own grave.

And, whenever he needed to complain that his head was loud and chaotic, or that his sleep was getting erratic, or that he felt like shit, he could. He received no judgment, no backlash for feeling. And he also had a few people to talk to, unlike when he was younger.

He finally allowed himself to rant directly to his brother about something other than hunting, instead of hiding behind a mask of _‘fine’_ and _‘terrific’_ and _‘mind your own business’_. Their conversations moved from lore and weapons, especially since Sammy got married and moved out of the bunker: now they shared recipes, instead of cooking directly for themselves, being their only company for years; now they called to talk about more than possible hunts; now, they actually _cared_ , not because they were alone and abandoned by their father and stranded, or because the Universe was ending, but because they were family and were trying to understand what that word meant for normal people that didn’t deal with vampires on the daily.

And it was nice to talk about his childhood trauma with the person that was there and didn’t do that much damage, sharing the tips and tricks that he learnt first-hand in therapy, mainly to brag about how much progress he was doing.

He also had a vast support group, his kids and Jody and Donna and Garth and Charlie and even _Crowley_ , and he wasn’t ashamed anymore of who he truly was. Sure, Sammy told him to tone it down with the puns and to cool down the whole ‘ _I’m bi and therefore better than you’_ shebang, but he was a straight cisgender man on thin ice due to all the flannels he kept on wearing, so his opinion didn’t count.

And, finally, he had Cas.

Never in a million years, he would’ve thought he’d have someone like Cas.

He was his best friend, the person he trusted most in the entire Universe, his lifeline. And he somehow put up with his idiotic plans to save the world and he burned eggs while attempting breakfast and he knew his favourite movies by heart, yet never complained whenever they watched them over and over. He was the best thing that had ever happened to Dean, hands down. And to think that they had lost each other countless times but managed to get back.

The last time had been though, even with Jack and Amara’s full powers in play, but they managed to pull him out of the Empty alongside all of their friends that were stuck there due to Chuck’s mood swings.

They had both wasted too much time hiding and had finally taken their heads out of the respective asses, vowing to ‘ _never do that again’_.

And, with Cas, he didn’t need to hide, he didn’t need to be afraid or ashamed. He could just be himself, out and proud and finally happy.

But, still, sometimes driving helped him get into his headspace and work things out. The road had been his home for so long, it was comforting to just drive without having a destination or a hit list.

One year before, he was trying to save himself and the Universe from a sadistic writer who only cared about himself and wanted to delete all of his work just because his characters weren’t acting as he planned. With mediocre writing at best.

But now, now he was the happiest he had ever been. He had a home he adored, full of books and classic weapons, with great water pressure and a kitchen to die for. He had a family that he found on his own, bonds he forged himself with people that cared about him and that he cared about the back. He had the two best kids in the entire universe, even when they teamed up against him choosing movies or when they mocked him for his reading glasses.

He had somehow become an Old Man, just like Bobby, who had been more of a father to him than his own had ever even attempted to. And, as such, even after defeating monsters left and right and winning in a literal fistfight against God himself, he was still too scared to put plastic-y things he didn’t trust in his eyes, so he was stuck with the glasses that he kept around his neck with a lanyard, especially because both his kids and his brother appeared to have a moral crusade against them.

And, he finally had Cas now.

Not bad for the guy who didn’t want to live past 30.

Suddenly, as he stopped at a red light, he remembered another time he just drove without a destination, letting the miles wash over him and take away his worries. He remembered how he had just driven into the night without bothering to check about cars incoming his way or without following road rules, hoping for the best. He didn’t remember the fight between his father and his brother, after all the years they had blended together all in one, but he remembered just how hopeless and numb he had felt, driving away, only to turn around when his duty clocked him at a red light.

That seemed like a lifetime before.

Or like 15 seasons.

His life couldn’t have been different: he was young and still following his father’s vengeance trail into a painful death, hiding every single aspect of his life that wasn’t appropriate for a soldier, burying himself into a work he didn’t feel like his own in a life that wasn’t his; now, he spent his days researching and updating the bunker’s records, while his incredible husband literally ran Heaven like a clock.

Not bad, indeed.

The red light turned green and, before the cars behind him could start honking, he resumed his driving. He had less than an hour to kill now before going to pick up back the kids. They had been hell-bent on seeing the new Disney movie at the cinema instead of waiting for it to be uploaded on Disney Plus, and he didn’t feel like uselessly driving back and forth from the bunker.

Therefore, groceries!

Just as he parked the car, his phone started to ring with Cas’ ringtone. He couldn’t help but pick it up with a smile. He had spent so long hiding his feelings for the angel and hiding his bisexuality and he couldn’t hold his happiness back any longer.

“Hello, Sunshine! Yeah, I’ve left the kids at the movies, I was gonna kill time grocery shopping. Do I need to add things to the list? Cute, alright. See ya later, babe. I love you!”

22 years prior he had attempted to run away from his crazy, psychotic, downright toxic family. And now, he couldn’t even fathom the idea of staying away from them for more than a couple of days. He still had a long way to go to fix all the damage his screwed up life had done on his psyche, but he was willing to do all the work necessary.

Not bad indeed.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ps. This last part is hard ‘cause I never actually lived this post part 1 LOL. I’m still stuck in the first loop and probably I’ll be stuck here forever until I kill myself LOL

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think about this!  
> please, don't forget to leave a kudo.  
> 'til next time,  
> Jo


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